


Bright Lights and Promises

by elrhiarhodan



Category: Magic Mike, White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, crossover fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter chases down a lead on Neal, who may be working as a stripper in a club in Miami.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Lights and Promises

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, this was an attempt to fill [this prompt](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/127669.html?thread=2340021#t2340021) on Rabidchild67’s Magic Mike [Kink Meme](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/127669.html), but it just sort of went completely sideways.

To say he felt like half a man these days was putting it mildly. Stripped of his badge, his authority, his purpose, Peter felt empty and useless. Hughes used the words “temporary suspension” but given his record with Neal and his own damning words to Kramer, it looked like “temporary” was about to become permanent.

It was a little after five, El was working (because there were still bills to be paid) and Peter was sitting on the couch, idly stroking Satchmo’s head, when the doorbell rang. He thought about ignoring it, but he wasn’t so far gone into depression that he actually could.

The vestibule held a pleasant surprise - actually a pair of pleasant surprises. Diana and Clinton. She had a sack that looked like it contained a few six packs in it, and the aroma from his bag was screaming Chinatown’s most famous Peking duck. Both agents were smiling.

“Hey, boss…”

Peter wanted to say that he wasn’t her boss anymore, but he held his tongue. “You’ve come to rescue me from bad takeout with … good takeout?”

“Yeah, and –” Clinton gave an _ooph_ as Diana elbowed him in the ribs. The pair pushed their way into the house, greeted the dog and set out the food and the alcohol.

The duck was reduced to tiny bones and all three of them sported greasy faces. Diana expressed her own, special appreciation for the meal with a splendid, beery belch. Peter toyed with his bottle, looking at his friends - yes, they were his friends - with curiosity.

“And so, what really brings you here?” He wasn’t too drunk to pin both of them with the famed Peter Burke gaze of doom.

Diana sighed, stifling another belch and told Clinton to give it up. He pulled something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Peter. It was some kind of postcard - a bit oversized - not intended for mailing. Peter turned it over and blinked.

It definitely was advertising, but not any that he expected Jones to have. There were five highly polished, nearly naked men featured for “Xquisite - Now Opened in Miami!” He handed it back to Clinton, puzzled. “What is this?”

Clinton pushed it back to him. “Look at it again. Look at the face of the second guy on the right.”

Peter did, and looked back at Diana and Clinton, shocked speechless.

“Yeah - I’d bet my pension that’s Neal.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Miami was hot. The sky was too blue and the people were too, well, too much. New York might be the Modern Babel, but Miami seemed filled with people who just didn’t shut up. Peter’s head was spinning by the time he got out of the taxi. The driver kept up a steady stream of commentary, asking questions and not bothering to wait for answers, which suited Peter fine. He was not interested in answering.

Peter thought about going directly to the club, but it was still too early, so the cabbie dropped him off at his motel, a faded and worn out facility on the outmost edge of fashionable Miami Beach. He checked in with Diana, who had used some old State Department connections to dig out information on Xquisite. It was frustrating to have to work through third parties, but there was the ever-present risk that anything Diana did using FBI resources would be tracked and flagged.

“Before we go any further, when this is all done, you are going to have to take my father’s assistant out to dinner and explain why he’s using Federal resources to look up the incorporation and tax information for a male strip club in Miami.”

“If he came through, you can tell him that he can pick the restaurant.”

“It’s a legit business. Incorporated in Florida ten years ago, originally based in Tampa. They just opened the new Miami place a few weeks ago. I’d guess that Isabelle had gone there on opening night, or close to it.”

Clinton had gotten hold of the advertisement from his former fiancée, who had gone to Miami with some girlfriends to celebrate her divorce. She had seen the show and thought the resemblance between one of the dancers and CJ’s co-worker was startling, and sent the flyer to him. She had no idea that Neal had run.

Diana continued, “I’m guessing that the majority of the club’s employees are paid off the books - there’s less than a dozen 1099s on file, and just one W-2, for the owner.”

“Anything recent?” Recent as in since Neal had run.

“Nothing conclusive - this year's 1099s wouldn’t be filed with the IRS until the end of the year.” Diana sounded as frustrated as Peter felt.

“Anything else?”

“Not really - it’s a strip club, plain and simple. The Tampa location had a few citations - mostly for noise and over-crowding, but it’s closed now. Unless you want me to reach out to the Tampa PD to see if there’s anything off the record, the place was clean. The Miami club is too new to have a record. I’ll run the names of the employees on file and let you know if anything pops up.”

“Di - you’re the best.” 

“Boss - if it is Neal, what are you going to do?” She asked a question that Peter didn’t have the answer for.

“Don’t know. I should bring him back - he’s an escaped felon.” God, he hated saying those words. 

“But you don’t have a badge, or the authority to do anything.” She was the voice of reason.

“And I could be bringing the Marshals down here, putting him in jeopardy.” It was a risk, even though Peter was pretty certain he hadn’t been followed. Before Di dropped him off at the airport, they stopped and bought a pair of burner phones, a necessity to ensure that they could talk without anyone listening in.

“Whatever you do, Peter - you know that Jones and I will back you up.”

Peter had to smile - the loyalty of these two people had been the brightest spot in his life since Neal left. “Thank you.”

Peter called Elizabeth, but the message went right to voice mail. He wished she was here with him, she’d know just what to do, what to say. But she was in Connecticut, overseeing a society wedding. When he told her about this lead on Neal - the first one he had, she all but put him on the airplane.

He puttered around the small confines of the motel room, unpacked the few pieces of clothing he brought with him and decided that it was late enough to head over to Xquisite. 

The club was on Washington Avenue in South Beach, one of dozens of nightspots. The crowds were beginning to congregate at the doors and along the velvet rope lines. Peter realized that he probably wouldn’t get past the bouncer at any of the dance clubs, but hopefully that wouldn’t be a problem at his destination.

The marquee for Xquisite called the show “The Hottest Men with the Hottest Moves in Miami” and there were women lined up to pay the cover charge. Peter blinked, there were only women - not a single man was waiting to get in. 

His heart sank - there was no way he could just waltz in there by himself. That would be …What? Queer? And since when did that matter to him? 

He pulled a twenty off his money clip, girded himself for the inevitable sneers and got on line. The sneers never came, although a few of the women - actually girls who didn’t look old enough to be wearing makeup, let alone drink - looked at him, looked away, and giggled.

The bouncer took his twenty, stamped his hand and Peter found himself in a completely alien world. Brawny young men in tight black pants and bow ties and nothing else were gliding around, guiding the women to tables, taking orders for drinks. He didn’t want a table, he didn’t want a drink. He didn’t want to be here - but he didn’t have a choice. Instead of humiliating himself by sitting at a table, Peter found the bar, ordered a beer and tried to appear as nonchalant as possible.

He got a few side-eyed stares, and was a little relieved to see that he wasn’t the only male spectator, though the three guys near the stage were as giddy as the high-end housewives and sorority sisters. No, Peter was probably the only heterosexual male observer in the place. He took a sip of his beer and relaxed against the bar, ignoring everyone as he hoped he’d be ignored. 

At exactly ten o’clock the house lights dimmed. A man, tall and blond, wearing leather pants so tight that Peter figured he had needed Crisco to get them on, took the stage. He was charming, in an oily sort of way, instructing the guests on what could and could not be touched. The speech was polished, delivered with a sly ease, and Peter figured that it was a good thing that the man was only working a strip club because he’d make a splendid politician.

“…and I think I see a lot of lawbreakers here.”

The crowd dissolved into hoots and hollers, and the stage lights dimmed. Fake thunder and lightening erupted from the speakers and Peter recognized the opening beats of a disco classic. He had to laugh, because was there really a more perfect piece of music for a male stripper act than “It’s Raining Men”?

There were five dancers on the stage, clad in bulky raincoats and hats, twirling umbrellas. Peter stood up and stared at the dancer in the second row. With the flashing lights, it was hard to tell, but the hat almost convinced him that the man up there was Neal. And then the coats came off, the hats came off, the rest of the wardrobe came off, and Peter wasn’t so sure anymore.

He’d seen Neal shirtless plenty of times, he’d seen those shoulders and pecs and abs. Neal was built, had enviable definition, but he wasn’t this big. Even from a distance, Peter could tell that the man on the stage had at least fifteen pounds on Neal, his shoulders were broader, his arms bigger, his ass …

Well, Peter had never seen Neal’s ass. Or his package. Not like this. The thong left nothing to the imagination, unlike some of the tighter pants that his partner wore.

The routine came to an end, all of the men had money stuffed into their thongs, and in a moment of hysteria, Peter wondered just how much of that cash got declared to the IRS.

The revue continued with a series of individual acts. A big guy with long flowing hair did something with Tarzan that Edgar Rice Burroughs would have highly disapproved of. Another big guy played out a fireman scenario. There were another two mostly unmemorable acts, and then “Doctor Feelgood” came out. It was – and it wasn’t – Neal. 

It was Neal, because that was his smile – all little boy mischief and big boy charm. It wasn’t Neal because there was no way his friend would climb on top of a woman and thrust his pelvis into her face, at least in front of a screaming crowd.

More confused than ever, he didn’t know what to do. Time wasn’t infinite, though it felt like it during these days on suspension. He was going to have to start thinking about a new future, one that didn’t include a badge. A future that wasn’t going to include Neal Caffrey. Peter put the empty beer glass down, disgusted and depressed.

“Want another one?” The bartender swept away his glass.

He considered saying ‘no’ and leaving, but his mouth and his brain were out of sync. He dropped a few bills on the bar, and asked for a refill. There was no way he could leave here without knowing, one way or another.

The show came to an end as a group of ladies were escorted onto the stage and in some bizarre, sexed-up variation of musical chairs, got to stuff more money into the dancers’ tiny thongs. The men left the stage, the houselights came on and women began to exit in happy, giggling clusters. Peter stayed were he was.

The bartender gave him a funny look. “Place is closing, man.”

“Look – I need to talk with one of the … dancers.” He pulled out the advertisement that Jones had given him, and pointed to “Ken”. “Is there anyway I could talk to this guy?” He slid a twenty across the bar. The man sneered a little and Peter repeated the gesture with another twenty. 

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do – no promises, though.”

Peter watched the waiters, no longer shirtless, start to clean up the place. It didn’t take long for the bartender to come back, but not with “Ken.” Peter squelched the disappointment.

“Mr. Dallas, this is the man who was asking about Ken.” The bartender introduced him and drifted away.

“Why do you want to talk with one of my dancers?” It was the MC, and apparently the club’s owner.

Peter wished he’d better prepared what he needed to say. So he smiled and held out his hand. “Yeah – could I?”

The man – Dallas could either be a first or last name - didn’t take it. Peter let it drop, more than slightly embarrassed. He hoped it didn’t show.

“You don’t look like a groupie or a tourist or even a man who frequents strip clubs.” The guy’s tone was pleasant, but there was a thread of steel in the Texas accent. “You look like a cop.”

Peter decided that the only way he was going to get anywhere was to be as honest as he could. This was his only chance. “I’m – I was a cop. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Private dick?” There was definitely a sneer there and Peter realized he was about three seconds from getting thrown out.

“No – I’m here on a personal matter. Nothing to do with the law.” Well, that was true, in a way. He pulled out his phone – not the burner, but his personal phone. “I’m looking for a friend of mine, and well, he bears a strong resemblance to one of your dancers.” Peter pulled up the picture of him and Neal in their tuxedos, the one the El took, the one she called their “prom picture.” The one that set Kramer off on his wrong-headed vendetta. “Here.” He handed the phone to Dallas.

That, at least, got a positive reaction. Dallas whistled in appreciation. “This could be Ken – it could be.” Whatever else he was about to say got cut off as the dancers and a few girls – definitely groupies – came over to the bar, laughing and talking. And there was Ken, with blondes on both arms. One of the girls was carrying what looked to be a tiny pig.

Dallas called him over. “Take a look at this.” Ken joined them and Dallas handed him Peter’s phone.

He looked. “What is this? A joke?”

Dallas rocked back on his heels, grinning like a fox. “Nope. This guy – ” He waved a hand in Peter’s direction, thinks you may be his missing – what? Partner?”

“Friend.” Peter put special emphasis on that single syllable. He held out his hand again, to “Ken.” Not to shake it, but to take his phone back. Ken shook it. 

“I didn’t catch your name.” 

“I didn’t give it.” His heart sank. This man wasn’t Neal. Of that, he was completely and utterly certain. Not that Neal wasn’t capable of this level of pretense, but up close, there were too many little things that convinced him that this stripper wasn’t his missing friend. The lines on his face, a fine network of blood vessels too close to the skin, tell-tale signs of drug use. His teeth weren’t quite as white – he probably smoked pot regularly, too. Neal might have his vices, but drugs weren’t on the list.

But that didn’t mean that it was a dead end. Maybe Ken was a sibling, maybe he was someone that Neal kept in contact with.

Ken kept hold of his hand, rubbing a thumb against his wrist. The sensation wasn’t completely unpleasant. Peter tugged lightly and he let go.

“So – who are you? And who is this guy who looks so much like me?”

“You can call me Peter … Stone.”

“That’s funny – you have a stripper name!” Ken giggled.

_Oh, this *so* wasn’t Neal._ “Thanks, I guess.”

Ken gestured to the bartender. “My usual – you?”

The last thing Peter wanted was to get drunk and let his guard down. “Nah, I’m good.”

“So, Peter…” Ken angled himself to cut off everyone else. “Tell me about my twin.”

“Your twin?” Was this man really Neal’s brother? 

“Yeah – the guy in the picture, the guy who looks just like me.” Ken preened.

“Ah – yes. Neal – his name’s Neal Caffrey.” Peter watched Ken very carefully when his spoke Neal’s name. But there was nothing, no flaring nostrils, tightened lips, lowered eyelids. The name was meaningless. “We’ve known each other for a decade, give or take.” No need to tell Ken that three of those years were spent chasing Neal and four were when Neal was in a maximum security prison. 

“So – why were you wearing tuxedos? Going to some fancy party? Getting married?” Ken finally gave Peter back his phone.

Peter didn’t blink at the assumption; it wasn’t the first time that he’d heard speculation about his relationship with Neal. And an outsider, someone who was one step away from the sex trade might have good reason to think that way. “No, it was work-related.”

“So – you’re not *that* type of friends, then?” Ken stepped closer, tilting his head up like a curious animal.

“We’re friends.” Peter didn’t know why he didn’t deny the implication in Ken’s question. 

“If you’re friends, why are you looking for him in strip clubs?”

_Good question._ “Neal got into some trouble, he had to leave town abruptly.”

Ken’s look was speculative, as if he didn’t believe him. “What sort of trouble?”

“Let’s just say, the type of trouble you’ll never get into.” 

Ken didn’t press the issue. “You miss him.”

Those three simple words set off such a familiar ache. “Yeah, very much.” Peter looked down. It was too much to see that familiar face with the all those unfamiliar details.

“Maybe I can help?” Ken sidled even closer. His hand dropped down and cupped Peter’s groin, squeezing gently. The up-from-under smile he gave Peter when his cock leapt was pure sleaze. 

As he looked down at that dark head, Peter told himself that his reaction was simple biology. Someone touches his dick, his dick’s going to react. But he knew that was a lie, this was a fantasy come to life.

“I bet you dream about this, about fucking that friend of yours. Is that why he ran away?” Ken’s thumb stroked back and forth across his denim covered cock. “You’re huge, I bet he was afraid you’d hurt him.”

Peter swallowed, he wanted to be disgusted, he wanted to pull away. He couldn’t.

“You’d hurt me, you know. You could, if you wanted to.” Ken whispered, his other hand pulling at Peter’s fly. “I bet you’re brutal in bed, I bet you’d make me bleed. But I bet you’d make me like it and scream for more.” 

Peter’s zipper began to inch down, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t step away. This was so wrong, so disgusting. To be handled like this – by a stranger – in public. 

A blonde sauntered up and draped herself over Ken. Her eyes were dead, unfocused. “Sweetie, whatcha doin’?”

“Come, take a look.”

Ken’s hand was inside Peter’s pants, fingers worming their way through his boxers. 

“Ooooh, you going to share with me?” The woman dropped to her knees.

“You want my wife to suck you?”

Those words, “my wife”, broke the spell. Peter stepped back, crashing into the bar. He pulled up his fly and held out his hands. As if to ward off an attack.

“Hey, hey – it’s okay. No harm.”

Taking a deep breath, Peter composed himself. “Thank you – but, no.”

“You sure? My wife likes big dicks as much as I do.”

“No – no.”

“Whatever. Hope you find your friend.” Ken and his wife drifted back towards the other dancers and their hangers-on. 

Peter walked out of the club; it felt like he just escaped some terrible fate. It was well after midnight, but the strip was still full of beautiful, noisy people. The air was hot, thick, oppressive, but not as oppressive as what was going on inside the place he just left.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter caught the first flight out of Miami International and was home a little before nine the next morning. Elizabeth was still in her robe and slippers and she had never looked more beautiful.

“It wasn’t Neal?”

“No, it wasn’t. That guy was nothing like Neal at all, not beyond a superficial physical resemblance.” 

She looked up at him, worry and love and everything clean and stainless and honest shining out of her eyes. “What happened?”

Peter couldn’t tell her, not just yet. Not because he didn’t want to, or because he was afraid she would be angry, but because he wasn’t ready to admit to himself what would have happened if Ken’s wife hadn’t interrupted them. Peter wasn’t blind; he wasn’t stupid or particularly self-delusional. He always knew, deep in his bones, what he felt for Neal was a hell of a lot more than comradely affection. The fantasy of what Ken had offered was just too close to his darkest imaginings.

“Peter?”

He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth, holding her close, savoring her arms around him. “I’m scared, El. I’m scared I’ll never find him. Or I’ll find him and it’ll be too late.” _And I’m terrified of what will happen when I do find him._

__

FIN


End file.
